CLOSED ⤧ one day is one day less to live

[prayforprey]

Who: prayforprey & justforthegun.
What: The Invite was extended. Time to see if it's accepted.
When: After this thread took place, so the night of the 29th. Yeeep, we back-loggin'.
Where: Starts near the elevator on the third floor.
Warnings: Standard stuff for Genkaku. This could change.

Comments

[justforthegun]

And how does Adachi show up? He certainly didn't give a thought to how Genkaku wanted him to look. Buttoned-up and tied-tight, he looks much the same as always... at a glance

[prayforprey]

Genkaku thinks about the first time he smoked when Adachi walks around the corner. He remembers it almost as intimately as he remembers his first kills: from the sizzle on his fingertips, the taste in his mouth, the dryness in his lungs, the suddenly lazy but encompassing drawl on his mind. It's an overpowering sort of thing, knowing you're making yourself lazy and useless and doing it anyway. It's something to control, even if it winds up controlling you.

He follows smoke and remembers fire. Adachi, Genkaku knows, is ready to burn, no matter how much the monk places on his past. But he looks like he’s walking in smoke. Nicotine-Blue or Killer-Fire GreyBlack, it doesn’t matter. The embers are the same yelloworangeredhot.

“How’s your spine?” he asks without giving a greeting back, peeling away from the wall like a slab of flesh that just doesn’t want to leave the muscle.

Is it cold?, he could have followed up with, a predatory smirk on his face. Or, Is it straight and crooked and narrow? But he doesn’t. It isn’t necessary, and he

[justforthegun]

By reflex, at Genkaku's mention, Adachi touches the back of his neck, the ridges of his vertebrae, and the crick that never went away there. How was his spine? Sometimes, the less he cared, the straighter he stood; sometimes, the less he cared, the more he sagged. No matter where he went, though, the weight of his own head was always there... and tonight it was definitely heavy. He was waiting for something to finally push him all the way down or pull him back up

[prayforprey]

If Thor is a living, breathing thing (as Genkaku often swears it might just be), the slums are its intestines. Grey and gnarled, twisting and twining throughout the ship to keep it alive, keep it going, no matter how many boozer parties or junkie fixes try to take it down. Living things sure are miraculous, ain't they? For all the damage the host does to itself (or the parasites inside it do), it just keeps going. Thrive on, little ship, he cheers for it, loves its suffering. Thrive on.

Even down in the billow and brim of great Thor's vitals, the monk has a leadership quality about him. Body rigortight, the flip and slip of tattered tails of clothing trailing behind him when the doors open and let in the indefinable odor of the slums. Metallic and bloody, diseased, people beggingscreaming let me up let me out. Everyone in need of Saving. Everyone in need of a bullet, built of iron chambers that will oxidize and rust

1/?

[justforthegun]

Adachi recognizes the arrogance in Genkaku's swagger. It's muscle memory- he himself had stood tall and proud in a kingdom of ruined dreams. He doesn't revert completely to that particular Shadow of his, but his posture does shift back in that direction by mere millimeters. It is not by Genkaku's hand that Adachi is thus crowned; it's something innate that gives his indifferent gaze over this filth a measure of nobility. At complete odds with the man who cowered under his bed and ran at the thought of Genkaku earlier under the bright white lights of the upper Thor, this man under the dim red and yellow of the Thor's intestines doesn't have a trace of cowardice in him. He does not keep to himself with fear, but with disdain. Somehow this is all rather familiar- it's simply that the scum here still wear their skins. He is sure that if he bothered to cut them open, the redblack sludge he's familiar with would fly out to greet him.

His head aches at the thought.